


Meditations on a gorse bush

by lbmisscharlie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Time, Flowers, M/M, oblique love notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-17
Updated: 2011-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:29:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie/pseuds/lbmisscharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/10852.html?thread=53812324#t53812324">this</a> prompt at the kinkmeme:<i>Give me Sherlock passing out meaningful flowers to unsuspecting people please, and maybe one who might know.</i> It basically became Sherlock giving plants to an unsuspecting John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meditations on a gorse bush

There’s a head of lettuce on the table. Iceberg. John picks it up, rotates it in his palm. Seems normal – yet. He did the shopping this week (every week) and he didn’t buy it. Doesn’t like iceberg. And Sherlock, well, John’s not convinced the man’s ever met a vegetable he’ll eat willingly.

So. Lettuce, on the table. Perhaps for an experiment – that generally explains away the weirder occurrences in 221b – but John has a feeling not. Of late, it seems, every item he encounters in the flat is imbued with a meaning he can’t quite discern. Sometimes the plants just appear, like the oak leaf tucked carefully into the inner pocket of his jacket, while other times Sherlock has presented them, bestowed them really, with a gravity more apt for royal meetings.

The flat’s practically a rainforest now and John can’t help but think he’s not yet in on the joke.

++

Eight days ago, John’s post-work cuppa and crossword had been interrupted when Sherlock arrived, slamming open the door and dropping a rather large bundle of spiny, prickly greenery into his lap, tearing the newspaper.

Biting back expletives, John gingerly picked up the plant. “It’s a…shrub.”

“Oh, well obser-” Sherlock snapped his mouth shut, almost forcefully swallowing his sarcasm. “I mean, yes, John, it is a shrub. Or, more technically, common European gorse, _ulex europaeus_.” He smiled beatifically. “It’s for you.”

“I…thank you? Why do I need a gorse?”

“It’s a gift. A good or item given by one person to another in a show of affection, emotion, gratitude, or felicitations.”

“Yes, that is what a gift is. But why a shrub – I mean, gorse?”

Sherlock had coloured slightly but responded, “It’s a gift, John. I’m sure at one point someone told me it was the thought that counts.” He sounded so put out that John had given in, said thank you, and placed the gorse on the living room table.

He’s taken to calling it Georgie in his mind now.

++

Now, when the next bush had shown up, with its dark round berries and woody stems, he thought maybe Sherlock had decided on a bit of indoor gardening. A hobby, you know. Either way, he mostly ignored it, just moving it slightly to the side so that he could see the telly better.

The fern, now, the fern really confused him. Suspended from the ceiling in a frankly hideous macramé hanger, its long leaves extended from the pot and tickling his head as he sat at the desk. It was so average, domestic, suburban really. He couldn’t possibly see Sherlock buying it, picking it out at the nursery, choosing that frankly hideous hanger, standing on John’s chair – one foot on the desk, the footprint’s still there on a discarded envelope – in order to hang it. Yet, here it was.

The fern’s a mere annoyance to what came next. His palm’s still slightly sore from coming in unexpected contact with the prickly spines of a small potted cactus, placed on his bedroom windowsill. In the light, it might not have been quite as hazardous, but after John stumbled in at three in the morning after a rather exuberant chase through Hyde Park, he had quickly stripped off and collapsed into bed without even turning on a light. Reaching for his alarm clock after an ungodly three hours’ sleep, his hand had found something even more unwanted than a shrieking clock. Sherlock had looked somewhat shame-faced that morning, after John’s shouts had undoubtedly woken him.

The next addition was strangely beautiful and seemed far more at home amongst the general oddities of the flat than its predecessors. He thought perhaps this one was acquired aesthetically, for its distinctive look. Although it was certainly more likely that the vibrant red berries or strange red-tinged bark would, when distilled, make a potent poison. He was pretty sure he imagined the significant glances Sherlock gave him, looking between John and the tree, but he made sure to keep an eye on his tea after that.

Yesterday, one more bush had appeared. A silvery-green colour with a flat, branching leaf, the plant smelt strongly of anise and mothballs. That one he had placed near the open window and avoided.

And today, lettuce.

++

When Sherlock arrives back from Bart’s morgue, John throws the head of lettuce at him. Sherlock, stepping through the door, manages to catch it, clutching it to his chest ungracefully.

John decides to go for straightforward. Sherlock rarely follows or appreciates indirect questioning. “So, what’s all this about, then?”

He can tell when Sherlock’s feigning innocence, as he tends to go almost disturbingly wide-eyed. “What’s all what about?”

“What do you think? The jungle that seems to have taken over our home.”

“Oh. I apologize, John, I thought I’d been clear. They’re for you.”

“For me?”

“Yes. As I said, gifts.”

“Right. What made you think I wanted a load of bloody plants, anyway?” He begins to raise his voice but checks himself. “I mean, I don’t even really know anything about plants, I don’t think I’ve ever expressed an interest in them.”

“But what about the peppermint?”

“The peppermint? What? Sherlock, I’m not following.”

Sherlock’s started to pace, steps necessarily constrained by the verdant forest surrounding them, hands rubbing against his thighs in a gesture of uncertainty. His expression is one of consideration, put on, John realizes, when he’s worried he’s gotten something wrong.

“Two months ago, when you were ill. You hadn’t been sleeping, hadn’t been able to eat anything.” John remembers; nasty bug that had made his stomach feel like it was devouring itself from the inside. “I bought you peppermint tea, to ease the gastric distress. You told me that your gran had said that peppermint was a sign of warmth of feeling. Something about one of those foolish old traditions that ascribed meanings to plants. Although in hindsight it may have been the fever delirium speaking.” Sherlock looks a bit sheepish now.

John remembers the tea but not the conversation. It is something his gran had told him, along with clover for luck and myrtle for joy. What he’s not sure about, though, is why Sherlock didn’t instantly delete his comment as worthless.

“So, peppermint? How does that translate to –” he gestures around the flat “– this?”

Sherlock’s stilled and he’s not meeting John’s eye. “I thought if you believed that, then I could use that preposterous system to…express my regard.”

“Your what…? Oh. Oh! You mean each of these means something?” Sherlock nods, still looking discomfited. It’s completely absurd, but for a man who works in codes and ciphers, it makes a strange sort of sense.

John steps over to him and touches him, gently, on the upper arm, intending to attract his attention. Sherlock’s eyes fly to him, as if the touch were the most intimate of caresses and John finds he can’t pull his hand away. “Will you…will you tell me what they mean?”

Sherlock turns and steps towards the door. For a moment John thinks he’s just going to leave, but he stops to take something from his coat pocket. His mobile. He touches the screen, fingers flicking through before choosing something, then hands it to John. “You can look them up there.”

“What, flatmate plant obsession, there’s an app for that?” Sherlock huffs a laugh. “Sherlock, I’m not actually a botanist. I don’t know what all these plants are.”

Sherlock’s jaw snaps shut, as if he hadn’t thought of that. “Fine, I can walk you through them. Just –” a flicker of insecurity flashes across his face. “Just read what they mean and don’t say anything until you’re done. Please.” John nods, feeling a lump in his throat.

“First, there’s ivy.”

“Ivy?” John knows what ivy looks like; there’s no ivy plant in the flat.

“Yes, six weeks ago when we gathered evidence at Mr. Cotswells’ house. I gave you an ivy vine.” John remembers – they had finished visiting, well, burgling, the old country manor when, as they walked away, Sherlock had handed him a leafy vine. He had pocketed it without thinking twice, assuming it was vital to the case, and forgotten about it until three days later after they’d finally caught the real burglar. John had found it in his jacket pocket at home later.

“I didn’t know that was, er, a gift.”

“It was rather impulsively given, but I was under the impression that such expressions were best given spontaneously.”

“Yes, I…rather.” He’s so caught up in watching Sherlock he doesn’t think to look it up until Sherlock gestures impatiently to the phone. He types in _ivy_ and the app returns _friendship, fidelity, affection_. Oh. That’s rather nice, actually. He smiles at Sherlock, who waves off his words.

“I realized you may not quite have grasped the significance of the ivy, so next I tried the asparagus.”

“Asparagus? I definitely don’t remember that one.”

Sherlock looks slightly rueful. “Yes, well, in hindsight this one might have been a little, um, subtle. We went to Angelo’s and you couldn’t decide what to eat. I ordered you the special, asparagus risotto.” He remembers now. He’s always been rather fond of asparagus, which Harry endless mocked him for when they were children. He types it in, surprised to see _fascination_ return. He looks up at Sherlock. He wants to ask, but he’d promised not to comment.

Instead, he prompts Sherlock. “And then?”

“I thought I was perhaps being too obscure, so I thought to find something slightly more demonstrative. However, finding apple blossom in autumn proved difficult, so I had to settle for an apple branch.”

John snorts. “I do remember that one. I wasn’t quite sure why you found it necessary to bring home the entire branch along with the apple. Was a tasty apple, though, once you reassured me it wasn’t poisoned.” He tries apple blossom, since Sherlock had said that was his intention. _Preference_. For him? His company? This was an awfully convoluted way of saying Sherlock didn’t mind having him around.

“You’ll certainly remember the next one. I decided to find something a bit more obvious, something you wouldn’t mistake for anything other than a gift. The gorse.”

Georgie sits in the corner, slightly overshadowed by his new companions. He’s started to flower, small, bright yellow blossoms. John can’t quite believe that he didn’t think to research gorse when Sherlock first gave it to him but he had thought it was yet another of Sherlock’s enigmas and beyond his reach.

He types it in and his breath catches. _Love in all seasons. **Love** in all seasons_. His voice is steady, though, when he asks, “what next?”

“The dogwood. I had hoped, again, to get the flower, but once more our current season rather made that difficult.” The dogwood, that must be the one with the black berries. He thinks he might have gotten the wrong idea from the last when it returns _durability_. His uncertainty must show in his face, because Sherlock says, almost to himself, “my interest in most things is rather fleeting. I find this,” he gestures between them, almost unconsciously, “rather enduring.” John swallows thickly.

“You’ll remember the fern, of course.”

“Yes, and I have to ask – macramé?”

Sherlock snorts a laugh. “It is rather appalling. It was, unfortunately, all they had. I thought perhaps Mrs Hudson could make us something less…distasteful. If we choose to keep it.” Now John’s imagining asking Mrs Hudson to knit them a fern cosy. He laughs to himself a bit as he types it in. _Sincerity, confidence_. That’s rather nice.

“Then I thought, perhaps, something that addresses characteristics that I admire in you. Hence, the oak leaf –” _strength_ , the app says, “and the cactus. I admit not warning you about it was an oversight on my part.” _Bravery and endurance_. He looks up at Sherlock, who meets his eye finally and nods in affirmation.

For a long moment they just look and John’s amazed to see the openness in Sherlock’s face. It’s as if in enumerating his carefully chosen sentiments, he’s revealing more of the raw emotion behind them. He looks, in this moment, happy yet wistful, as if he’s apprehensive but hopeful about his next words.

“Then, the arbutus tree.” He doesn’t say anything else and John looks it up in silence.

 _Thee only do I love_. John’s breath stills as the world narrows to a few words on a screen. He’d long ago given up on figuring out what exactly he felt for his flatmate; why he dashed around after him, calmed his sharp tongue, found him brilliant and amazing when others just saw annoyance. Why he watched him when he paced, made him eat when he refused, covered him up when he crashed unwillingly into slumber on the sofa. Why he doctored his body and soothed his mind. Why he loved him.

Sherlock needn’t worry about his injunction against speech; John finds he’s quite incapable of forming sentences. He looks up from the phone but Sherlock’s looking away, more uncertain than John’s ever seen him.

“I was going to give you this, before. But I don’t know if…” he pulls from his breast pocket a tiny, delicate blossom. A perfect white snowdrop. John knows this one; it was another on his gran’s list. _Hope_.

With a grin he plucks the flower from Sherlock’s fingers, then grasps his lapel and pulls Sherlock toward him. “ _Yes_ ,” he breathes against Sherlock’s lips just before they touch. _Yes, have hope_.

++

Later, he remembers to ask Sherlock about the final two, the lettuce and the foul-smelling wormwood. Sherlock admits, somewhat sheepishly, that he had begun to think John was ignoring his advances.

“The wormwood means tormented love and the lettuce cold-heartedness,” Sherlock says in a rush. John snickers and Sherlock looks affronted. “You hadn’t said a single word about any of them! I thought you might be ignoring me rather than choosing to let me down gently.”

“You berk. I had no idea what they meant and as usual it was easier to ignore your strange new habit than to try to understand it.” Sherlock huffs. “What, by the way, are we going to do with all of these?”

“I’ve grown rather fond of them.” John narrows his eyes. “We can put some in the back garden! And perhaps dispose of the wormwood. Unless…” his eyes glint mischievously, “I’ve heard home-distilled absinthe is quite the experience.”

“Absolutely not. You are banned from making moonshine. And I suppose we can keep them, but no more, please.”

“I was thinking just one more.” John raises his eyebrow. “Honeysuckle.” John reaches across Sherlock to pick up his phone. Honeysuckle: _devoted affection, bonds of love_.

“I suppose just one more wouldn’t hurt.”  



End file.
